


build me up, buttercup

by stilitana



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Bets & Wagers, Board Games, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Teasing, and sleepover-esque shenanigans ensued, basically what if after his rescue eiffel jacobi & maxwell were sort-of pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23462863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: “Baby,” Maxwell said, a smile curling her lips up. Not quite cruel, but just a hair edgier than friendly teasing.“Sweetheart,” said Jacobi, smirking at her over Eiffel’s bed as she drifted around the other side of it.“Darling,” she sighed, folding her hands near her face and pretending to swoon. “Come on—we're all pals here. This is what pals do, right? Talk about their crushes?”“You can’t be serious,” Eiffel said, looking at them with unabashed disbelief.“Dead serious,” said Jacobi.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi & Alana Maxwell, Doug Eiffel & Daniel Jacobi & Alana Maxwell, Doug Eiffel & Renée Minkowski, Doug Eiffel/Hera
Comments: 23
Kudos: 193





	build me up, buttercup

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear reader! So, I really wanted to have a little fun with the Jacobi, Maxwell, & Eiffel dynamic while they were on the Urania together, while also fleshing out some of the fallout of Eiffel's time in the shuttle. I had a ton of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As always, comments and critique are very appreciated! I'm considering making this part of a series because I have several more ideas, so let me know if that's something you'd like to see. Feel free to find me on tumblr @[stilitana](https://stilitana.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading.

In the early days of his one-way excursion into the dread void of deep-space, Eiffel hadn’t allowed himself to imagine his homecoming in any detail. He simply told himself with as much certainty as he could muster that it would happen, and soon, and left it at that—if he gave into fantasizing, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. 

He quickly realized it wasn’t up to him. The line between fantasy and reality got a little...permeable out there. One minute he was wrenched back into consciousness at the end of another cryo-cycle, gasping for air and watching bits of organic matter, his skin and hair and nails, floating away from him, and the next, he was back on the Hephaestus, or back on Earth in a memory. 

He must have lived it a thousand times, his homecoming. Sometimes he stood in the airlock entryway, grim and stoic as a soldier back from war in a commercial, and the Commander shouted his name and started to cry and ran to him, dragged him into a tight hug. Sometimes she was stoic, too, and shook his hand, with all the pride and respect in her eyes he’d never before had the guts to admit he wanted to see. Sometimes he broke down first, and they all held him. 

Sometimes there was nobody there at all. They’d all died, or left, and he’d suffered all that only to return to a station empty and cold as a crypt. 

And sometimes it only seemed like nobody was there, at first—nobody organic, anyway. Hera’s voice came clear and sweet through the air, saying his name, and he’d smile, all charming and tired and tragic, and say, “Hey there, darlin’. Told you I’d be back. Did you miss me?” 

Pure vanity, of course. Just dreams. But it was all he had. 

He drifted. 

He didn’t remember much about being rescued from the shuttle. The crew of the Urania cracked it open like an egg and there he was, a half-formed unready thing, not really fit to live outside, his mind unraveled around him like a spool of tangled thread and his body undone. 

Their faces hovered above him. Memory ran underneath the present like an old film reel, and time wasn’t a line or a circle at all, it was a dot, and it was all happening at once, right on top of itself. He’d been here before—he was seventeen and sedated on a surgeon’s table, prepped to have his wisdom teeth yanked and drifting in the pure pleasure of the twilight in his mind, staring up at a very bright light. Three people stared down at him. The surgeon and the nurses, their faces all covered up, only their eyes visible amid the blinding glare—their eyes these huge black pupils, fuzzy around the edges, like cigarette burns on an old photograph, magnetic and drawing him in, and he tried to make eye-contact, tried to make them understand that he was awake, that he could see them, that he was real and alive. _I’m human,_ he said with his eyes, _and I see you seeing me—that should make it hard to hurt me, right?_

Their hands came down and pulled him from the shuttle, and it hurt very much. For all the time he’d spent screaming and burning for touch, for just one more human touch, the press of a single hand on his, it hurt. Like being born. He choked as a sob clawed at his throat and tried to breathe. 

He spent a lot of time in the med bay aboard the Urania, coming to grips with the fact that he was alive, and that along with being alive came consequences. The record of what he’d been through was plain for anybody to read just by looking at him and he couldn’t remember a time he’d felt more naked and exposed than sitting there in that freezing room while Maxwell ran scans on the machines and Kepler stood at her shoulder, appraising him with clinical interest, and Jacobi lounged in the doorway, inspecting his nails. 

“You’re quite the specimen,” said Maxwell, tapping commands onto a console. “By all rights, you shouldn’t have survived that. Now sit very still. Don’t move, or we’ll have to repeat the scan.” 

Blue light came from the machine extended down from the ceiling as its panels moved this way and that, the light going up and down over his body. It didn’t feel like anything. Most things didn’t feel like anything, anymore—he was empty except for the cold, and the bone-deep aching. 

“Remarkable,” Kepler said, shaking his head. His smiles were amiable and impersonal. When he said that Eiffel was going to be okay, that they were going to take care of everything now and he needn’t worry, he believed Kepler without hesitation. What else could he do? In the end he wasn’t stoic or brave. All he wanted was to give himself over into someone else’s more capable care. “You’re a remarkable man, Doug Eiffel.” 

“I don’t feel too remarkable,” he said. His breath made a wheezing noise whenever he exhaled. It was embarrassing and out of his control and made him feel vulnerable and helpless and exposed to these odd strangers, and there was nothing he could do about it. Like Hera’s glitch, he was marked. Faulty. Malfunctioning. 

He hadn’t thought it possible to miss Hera any more than he already had, but now the want was like a knife lodged in his chest. Or maybe that was just the lung damage. 

“You don’t look very remarkable, either,” said Jacobi. “Unless you mean remarkable as in, belongs in a med-school lecture.” 

“Mr. Jacobi, show Doug here a little courtesy, would you? He’s endured the unimaginable,” said Kepler. 

But something about Jacobi’s remark had tickled him. Doug laughed—little more than a shaky huff of air, but that was all it took to trigger the urge to cough. He tried to suppress it, but before long he was doubled over and going light-headed as he tried and failed to suck in enough air between coughs. 

“Sit up straight,” said Maxwell. He did his best to obey, and then she held an inhaler up to his face. “Put this in your mouth. Breathe in on one—three, two, one. Breathe as deep as you can, Officer Eiffel, and hold. I know, I know, keep holding if you can, and—breathe out, nice and deep. One more time, same thing, breathe in on one—you're doing great.” 

She stepped back and he blinked tears from his eyes. The horrible pressure in his chest began to ease and he could breathe again as the coughing subsided. 

“Better?” she asked. 

Eiffel nodded. “Thank you.” 

“How long have you had that cough?” 

“I...don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“I got...sick, on the Hephaestus. And then I got better, or I thought I did—but it never really went all the way away. But it hasn’t been this bad for a long time.” 

“Hm. There haven’t been many studies on the effects of long-term cryo exposure on the body’s systems—mainly because that would be extremely unethical and dangerous. You’re giving us all kinds of interesting data, Eiffel.” 

“Great. That’s what I’m here for, resident lab rat,” he muttered. 

She smiled. “That’s the spirit. Let’s run spirometry, check that air flow.” 

He started to get light-headed soon after beginning the next test. While he sat there breathing into the machine through a tube, Maxwell tapped at her console while Kepler went on watching him, arms folded across his chest, face a pleasant, inscrutable mask. Jacobi sighed, obviously bored. 

“Okay,” Maxwell said brightly. “All done. Good job, Doug.” 

“Do I get a lollipop now?” he said, trying not to give away that he was already getting breathless again. He caught Jacobi crack a lopsided grin. 

Maxwell patted the breast pocket of her jumpsuit and then fished out a hard candy. “I’ve got a Life Saver.” 

“What flavor?” 

She looked at the candy. “Red.” 

“Awesome, I love the taste of red.” 

“Here you go, then,” she said, handing him the candy. 

None of them looked away or commented while he struggled with the cellophane. Between not having fingernails or much sensation in his fingertips, it took him a second to unwrap it. When he put it in his mouth, he could tell that it was sweet, but it didn’t taste like he remembered. Was loss of taste another side-effect of cryo? If so, then his overall quality of life had just taken a decided plunge into the intolerable. There were so few pleasures left to him—if he didn’t have pizza to look forward to back on Earth, what was left? 

Or maybe it was just the general detachedness he’d been feeling ever since they pulled him from the shuttle, as though he were experiencing the world through a thin veil. Sometimes the Urania didn’t feel real at all. Sometimes it was him that didn’t feel real. He floated—hours passed by in the span of a minute, and he was left with no recollection of them and no choice but to assume he’d just been staring at a wall all day, not thinking. 

“Here. Keep this with you,” Maxwell said, handing him an inhaler. “Do you know how to use this?” 

“Um...” 

“Like this,” she said, and mimed shaking it, holding it to her face, counting out the inhale, holding, the exhale. “For emergencies, okay? We’ll be keeping track of how much you need it, get a baseline, see what needs adjusting.” 

“For how long?” 

She stared at him and he fought the urge to look down, until he couldn’t anymore and looked away. She seemed unperturbed by this. Unperturbed in general. She made persistent, steady eye-contact, so unbroken that at times she seemed unblinking. He didn’t think she meant anything unsettling by it. He didn’t think so, anyway. 

“It’s too early to really say anything for certain,” she said. “But I think it’s safe to assume for however long you keep on being alive.” 

He blinked, looking back up at her. It was such odd phrasing, so essentially Maxwellian, and he realized he was getting to know these people. “Forever?” 

“There are going to be some—maybe even a lot—of things that we’re going to be able to fix. You _will_ get better. There are also going to be some—maybe a lot—of things you’re going to have to learn to live with.” 

“Okay.” 

“It’s a good thing for you we’re still in zero-gravity,” she said. “You’d be having a _really_ hard time dealing with gravity right now.” 

“What about if—what about when I go home?” 

Her smile remained polite, aloof. “Let’s just focus on what we can do here for now, okay?” 

He nodded, which was enough to make him dizzy and stir up the headache that never really went away, just lay dormant when he kept very still and the lights were kept dim. “Okay.” 

The crew of the Urania were his saviors, and he could not forget that. Still—at times they unsettled him. It was like they were all wearing masks and speaking in code half the time, and he couldn’t get a read on what they were really thinking, or what their relationships were exactly to each other. Maxwell and Jacobi could go from bickering like siblings to cold, impartial professionalism in seconds. At times Kepler seemed like an indulgent, if somewhat detached father-figure, and then the next moment, something shifted, something too subtle for Eiffel to catch, and the other two would go tense and wary. 

Despite not being very comfortable around them, it was worse when he was alone. 

The med bay was cold—he was always cold, even though he’d been given a thermal blanket to cocoon himself in while he sat around with an IV drip in his arm, tapping mindlessly at a tablet. He’d been given restricted access to some books and games to keep him entertained, but trying to focus on anything for too long only frustrated him. His mind wandered. He got confused, forgot what he was doing. And keeping his eyes straining to focus for so long only dredged up the nausea and headache. 

Hilbert had left him with some not-so-pleasant associations with medical settings in general. He’d never spent all that much time around doctors growing up—he'd just gotten through life taking his health for granted. He’d never really been sick before, until he was all of a sudden, and then realized that he had been all along, maybe for a long time. His dependency crept up on him until he couldn’t see around it. Throwing up on his bathroom floor, waking up to do it again, passing out. 

He generally did an okay job of not thinking about what the sobering-up process had been like, of the accident. But now he was as sick as he’d ever been, and there was nothing to keep his mind from wandering. 

So he did what he’d learned to do on the Hephaestus, to keep himself in check. He started to talk. 

“Hey...Hera? Are you there?” he said. He waited, feeling a little ridiculous, a little nervous. If she answered, he would know that this was fake, right? He’d know this was a dream, or a hallucination, and he wasn’t saved at all, but still on the shuttle, a million miles from anything. And then what? He’d force himself to wake up, right? To get back into the cycles? To keep freezing and thawing and sending his transmissions? 

Or would he maybe just...let go? After everything, could anybody blame him, if he’d rather just pretend until his body gave out, that he was here, talking to her? 

But no one answered. 

That had never stopped him before. 

“I know you can’t hear me,” he said. “But I’m going to just keep talking anyway, okay? Okay. So...how’ve you been, baby? I really hope you’re okay. I really hope the rest of them are, too. How’s the Commander? Probably—probably enjoying the quiet, right? Probably doing just fine without me, without all my bullshit, right?” He laughed shakily, stopping himself when he felt the tickle in his chest that usually heralded another bout of death-rattle coughing. 

After a second of catching his breath, he went on. “The people I’m with, I think they’re okay. A little weird—but hey, so were we, right? Who am I to judge? And they did save me from a horrible death alone in the merciless void, so...there’s that. I’m not really doing so hot, to tell you the truth. I mean, I haven’t looked in a mirror or anything yet—not in any rush—but, uh...yeah, it’s not pretty. Sort of feel like one of those dead pigs in formaldehyde they keep in high school science classrooms, you know what I'm talking about? Or like a cave fish or something that lives under a rock where there’s never any light, and it doesn’t need eyes, and it’s skin is like see-through. Not like myself, is what I’m saying—not very human. But, hey, I’m alive. And human’s overrated.” 

He spaced out for a second, mind drifting back to the shuttle. “I talked to you out there, you know. And you talked back. That’s what kept me going, I think. Hearing all of you, talking to me, even if it wasn’t always nice, or easy, or what I wanted to hear. I don’t think I’m crazy—I just really needed you guys to be there. I still really need you guys to be there. So—so please be okay, and online, and doing really good when I get back, okay? By the time I see you again, I’m going to have thought of something really cool and like, emotional and profound to say when I get back. It’s going to be Oscar-worthy, baby, so you’d better be there to hear it, okay? Please. I really miss you, sweetheart. But I’m going to be with you soon. I swear. I came all this way. I’m gonna be with you all again real soon, and then we’ll...it’ll just be good. Everything will be all right again, darling. I promise.” 

He hugged his knees to his chest, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself and ducking his face into the dark box between his bony knees and his chest. His body was all sharp angles and it was so hard to ever get comfortable, or warm. His chest shook. There was pressure at the backs of his eyes, but no water. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

Doug’s head shot up as his eyes struggled to focus on Maxwell and Jacobi, hovering in the doorway and staring at him. His head throbbed as he felt his face heat up, and he knew he was blushing all the way to his ears. “Um—me? Nobody. Nope. Not talking to anybody.” 

“Right. Must have been the _other_ guy we rescued from a jury-rigged shuttle hurtling through space, then,” Jacobi drawled. 

“Must have been,” Eiffel said. 

The two of them exchanged glances with each other, and then came drifting into the room. The way they moved reminded him of two alley-cats—both scrappy and graceful at once. He’d never had any grace to speak of. Least of all now. His body was just this ugly, heavy heap of flesh and bone he had to lug around. 

“Baby,” Maxwell said, a smile curling her lips up. Not quite cruel, but just a hair edgier than friendly teasing. 

“Sweetheart,” said Jacobi, smirking at her over Eiffel’s bed as she drifted around the other side of it. 

“ _Darling,_ ” she sighed, folding her hands near her face and pretending to swoon. 

“How long were you listening to me?” he said, dismayed but unable to do anything about it. “That’s so—that's creepy.” 

“ _We’re_ creepy?” said Maxwell, smirking down at him. “Excuse me, but I think we’re entitled to a little curiosity when our new castaway starts soliloquizing to an empty room.” 

“Okay, that’s...fair.” 

“You’ve been holding out on us, Eiffel,” said Jacobi. 

Eiffel gulped, clutching his blanket. “Um—I have? No, I—I swear, I’m not. I told you everything, everything you asked.” 

“Except for the really juicy part, apparently,” said Maxwell. 

“Trapped in that hunk of junk, pining away,” said Jacobi. 

“One half of a pair of _literally_ star-crossed lovers,” Maxwell sighed, perching on the foot of his bed, holding onto it to anchor herself. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He coughed feebly into his fist. “I don’t feel so good. You know, freezer burn on all of my everything. I think I’d better rest. Thanks for checking in.” 

“Gee. You’re a world-class liar, Eiffel—I really can’t see how SI-5 didn’t scoop you up, with skills like that,” said Jacobi. 

“Come on—we're all pals here,” Maxwell said. “This is what pals do, right? Talk about their crushes?” 

“You can’t be serious,” Eiffel said, looking at them with unabashed disbelief. 

“Dead serious,” said Jacobi. 

“You’re--you’re like, a crew of super badass Goddard special agents, you can’t just say—you can’t say crushes.” 

“Careful, you’ll hurt our feelings,” Jacobi said. “Just kidding. We don’t have any.” 

“Come on, Eiffel,” Maxwell said, injecting a note of false pleading in her tone. “It’s all work, work, work around here! Do you know how boring it can get? Listening to Kepler tell the same old stories over and over again, hearing Jacobi tell the same lame explosions-related jokes?” 

“My jokes are hilarious, thanks very much.” 

“You’re the most exciting thing around,” she said. “For now. Until you become boring. So seize the moment, okay? Who’s the special someone?” 

“You guys have seriously misunderstood—it’s not like that.” 

“Really? Because it sounded pretty unmistakable to me,” said Jacobi. 

“You’re totally sweet on somebody on your crew, and it’s totally nauseating, and you absolutely have to spill and tell us everything.” 

“We could play the guessing game,” said Jacobi. 

“You two and your stupid games,” Maxwell muttered, rolling her eyes, but there was no bite in her voice. 

“Are they a woman?” asked Jacobi. 

“I’m not doing this, nope, no way. This is not happening.” 

“Are they a man?” asked Maxwell. 

“You guys are gonna be _so_ disappointed when you realize I’m really not lying, there’s nothing like that going on.” 

“Are they nonbinary?” asked Jacobi. 

“Would you look at the time—it’s drop it and let your poor ailing patient get some sleep o’clock!” 

Kepler’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Jacobi, Maxwell. I assume there’s a reason you’re bothering our guest, and not, oh, I don’t know...doing your jobs?” 

“I finished,” said Maxwell. 

“Great! Then you can help Eiffel get started on that physical therapy regimen we discussed. Let’s try and return him to his crew better off than we found him, all right?” 

Maxwell groaned. “Can’t Jacobi do it?” 

“Nope. I’m still busy.” 

“You are, Mr. Jacobi? You could have fooled me!” 

“Okay, okay, we’re getting back to work now,” Maxwell grumbled. 

“Thank you. You do that,” Kepler said, and the intercom flicked off. 

Maxwell rolled her eyes, grinning at Eiffel. “Okay. Ready to suffer some more?” 

It was a short trip from the med bay to what Maxwell referred to as the “gym,” but Eiffel found himself having to work to keep up with her, even in the lack of gravity. She turned a corner and he lost sight of her, pushing himself along while hyper-aware of any pressure in his chest. 

Maxwell peeked her head around the corner. “Come on, Eiffel, lollygagging will only prolong the inevitable.” 

“I’m coming,” he said, grabbing a rail and giving himself a weak push. He flailed to catch the corner and would have gone floating past had she not taken him by the forearm and pulled him closer. 

Maxwell frowned. “Are you...having a hard time with this?” 

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to squash the panic that was rapidly growing. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t seem fine.” 

“Maybe we can—start the physical therapy thing later? I’ll do better when I’m not...once I’m, you know, all recovered.” 

“Eiffel. This _is_ part of your recovery. You really can’t put this off—it won’t get any easier.” 

“But--I’m sick.” 

“Yeah. And some of that will heal, with time, and _therapy_. And some of that is going to be chronic. You know what that means, right? It’s not just going to go away. If you’re having trouble moving around the ship after five minutes, that means you needed to be in PT yesterday. Not tomorrow, not the next day. This isn’t just the side-effects of cryo, or sickness—your muscles have atrophied.” 

“Uh...well, they said some that would, you know, happen, when I went to space.” 

“Yeah. Some. With daily exercise. How much exercise do you think you were getting in that shuttle, Eiffel?” 

“It’s not like I had much of a choice!” 

“I know that. But it doesn’t matter.” 

Eiffel sighed, looking down at his arms. He’d been doing his best not to look at himself, as much as possible. He’d never really appreciated the term “skin and bones” until now. 

“This is going to really suck, isn’t it.” 

“I won’t lie to you. Yeah, it will. And it’s not going to get better over night. But no matter how hard it is, you’d better stick with it and not whine too much, for your own sake, okay? This isn’t exactly part of my job description—don't look at me like that, I don’t mind helping, I’d just appreciate if the _complaining_ was kept to a minimum, okay? Unless it’s funny or your way of dealing with the fact that if we were on Earth right now, you’d probably be incapable of walking.” 

“I...I what?” 

“Yeah. So, chin up! Let’s get to work.” 

Eiffel stood facing Maxwell, their palms pressed together. His arms shook like clotheslines in the wind and he bit his lip, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

“Come on,” she said, her voice level, infuriatingly composed, her manner easy, unstrained, almost bored, while he was struggling like a newborn that couldn’t hold its own head up. “That can’t be all you got. Are you even trying?” 

“Yes,” he panted. 

“Don’t just stand there—press. Act like you want to push me over.” 

“I _am_ pressing.” 

“Really? No. This is pressing,” she said, and with all the ease in the world, increased the force from her side, pressing gently against his palms. 

They were both restrained by the legs to the floor, so he didn’t go falling over, but he did become shockingly, mortifyingly aware of his own utter lack of abdominal strength as he tried to right himself. On reflex, he took he moved his hands away to right himself. 

“Nuh-uh,” she said, taking him by the wrists and putting his palms back against hers. “No cheating.” 

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice weak and tremorous. 

“You can and you will.” 

“I _can’t_ . God, I’m--what am I going to do when I get back? If I can’t even—can't even do this, how am I going to— _fuck_.” 

“I’d worry about being able to hold my own eyes open before I worried about my sex life if I were you.” 

He glared at her, trying with all his might to apply even the barest hint of pressure against her palms. “You’re so—ugh, god _damn_ it.” 

“Curse if it helps. Come on, get mad. Maybe that’ll help you quit being so goddamn wimpy.” 

“I can’t do it! I can’t, okay? So just let me give up and quit it already, would you? I can’t do it, I’m not good enough, and I’ll never be able to do anything, so just—shit,” he said, as she abruptly took her hands away and sent him reeling as he tried to rebalance himself. 

“That was time. Good job, Eiffel, you did it.” 

“I—I what?” 

“You did it. Tomorrow, you’ll do it again, for a little longer. Good job.” 

“I...I did? I did it?” 

“Yup. Now come on,” she said, checking her watch. “Kepler specially requested your attendance at game night. Let’s not keep the man waiting.” 

So apparently, in addition to spying on each other and being intimidating, the crew of the Urania had game nights. 

Eiffel decided to stop trying to pin any of them down, and to just lean into the absurd, like he probably should have done a long time ago. 

“There he is,” Kepler said, grinning from his seat at the table. “I take it Maxwell made a good personal trainer? Everything went all right?” 

Eiffel glanced at Maxwell, who didn’t even bother looking at him as she sat next to Jacobi. That only left the seat between Kepler and her. Eiffel eased himself into it and said, “Yeah, she was great. I don’t know how well I’d say it went, but you know, I’ve only got my body to blame for that. Apparently it’s made out of wet cardboard and noodles now, so that’s great.” 

Kepler laughed heartily, as though Eiffel was a regular comedian. Eiffel looked at him, unable to hide his caution or his surprise. Nobody ever laughed like that—Hera’s laugh was all fond exasperation, Minkowski rolled her eyes and sometimes hid a smile behind her hand, and Lovelace either scoffed or snickered, usually at him, not with him. Was this guy for real, or was this his weird way of trying to make Eiffel feel comfortable? 

He never thought he’d miss his crew’s lackluster response to his sense of humor so much. 

“Well, here’s to your rescue and speedy recovery, then,” Kepler said, and pushed a glass towards Eiffel, raising the bottle of whiskey he held at his side. 

Eiffel’s body went cold. “Oh.” 

Kepler’s gaze was sharp and piercing. He watched Eiffel closely as he went on. “Now, don’t go thinking this is the norm for game night—but I thought we might celebrate having a guest on board. Make it a special occasion.” 

“That’s...very nice of you.” 

Kepler chuckled, and started pouring Jacobi’s glass first, starting on his left hand side, like a card dealer. “We go without a lot of creature comforts out here, but you don’t leave behind your hospitality.” 

He was finished pouring Maxwell’s drink now. Without thinking, Eiffel put his hand out, covering the mouth of his glass as Kepler moved the bottle to pour. 

All of them went very still. Eiffel realized he was holding his breath and let it out shakily. “I’m sorry, sir—Colonel Kepler, sir. Thank you, but—no thank you.” 

All of them were staring at him. Eiffel felt his face heat up. He hated this part. Hated it with all he had. Maybe one day it would get easier, but so far, no luck—every time alcohol came into the picture, every time he had to assert his own tenuous sobriety, he felt sick to his stomach, like the world had tilted off kilter on its axis. 

And it didn’t feel safe, either. He could see Kepler being one of those guys who got weird about their drinks, like it was a personal slight for somebody to turn down their alcohol. Eiffel had never gotten along too well with people like that, even when he did drink. 

But Kepler’s tone remained calm, if a bit cool, when he said, “You don’t drink.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Eiffel shook his head anyway. “No. Sir.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m--yes,” he said, trying not to smell the whiskey, not to taste it, feel it burning down his throat and warming his belly, bringing that heady flush just underneath his skin, like he was lit up from within. 

Kepler nodded. He looked like he was making a calculation in his head, and there was nothing Eiffel could do about that but sit there and take it. “You should’ve just said before I poured, and we could’ve gotten out the hot cocoa instead or something. You’ll excuse me if we go ahead? Can’t let it go to waste, after all.” 

Eiffel felt some of the tension drain from his body and realized he was almost trembling from sitting so still. “Yes, of course.” 

Kepler’s smile slid back in place. The three of them clinked glasses with each other in turn, and then drank. Jacobi and Maxwell knocked their glasses back like college kids taking shots, while Kepler sipped his with relish, and didn’t that just turn Eiffel’s stomach, the almost feline pleasure on Kepler’s face as he let the alcohol sit in his mouth a second before swallowing. 

And then he put the bottle away, and Eiffel got to work on forgetting this latest moment of near-catastrophe. “Well, I feel like I’ve got to get you something to celebrate your miraculous survival,” Kepler said, smiling at Eiffel. 

“I mean—you saved my life, I really don’t think you need to—” 

“How about coffee?” 

Eiffel cut himself off with a squeak. “Coffee?” 

Kepler’s smile widened, as if genuinely charmed. “You do drink that, right?” 

“You mean—real coffee? Like, made of ground-up beans, grown on Earth, not seaweed-monstrosity not-coffee?” 

Kepler laughed. “Mr. Jacobi, would you get us all a mug?” 

Eiffel wasn’t sure he liked the look Jacobi shot him as he stood and went to make the coffee. It was almost territorial. 

Eiffel moaned when he took his first sip, not caring how the beverage scalded the roof of his mouth as he buried his face in the mug and drank. “Oh my god...” 

When he came up for air, the three of them were staring at him with various levels of amusement and judgement. He didn’t care. 

“You have no idea...how long it’s been,” he said, wrapping his hands around the mug, reveling in the warmth seeping through it into his cold palms. Maxwell said it was likely that the reason he couldn’t ever seem to get warm was a combination of the weight loss and the poor circulation in his hands and feet. He hadn’t asked if that was one of the things that was going to get better, or one of the ones he was going to have to learn to live with, and she hadn’t offered to tell him. 

“I think we’re getting an idea,” said Jacobi. 

“You might not want to guzzle that,” Maxwell said. “Go easy on your body, it’s not used to all that caffeine.”

“I don’t care. That’s future-me's problem.” 

Kepler chuckled. “Maxwell, would you get the game set up, please?” 

“Sure,” she said, spinning the tablet on the table around to face her. “It’s trivia night,” she explained to Eiffel. “And—oh, look at that, we’ve finally got an even number for teams!” 

“Do we have to?” Jacobi groused. 

“Oh, come on, let’s spice things up a little. You’re a competitive bastard, you’ll like it.” 

“Fine, but you take the space case.” 

It took Eiffel a second to get who the aforementioned space case was. 

“That’s no kind of attitude to bring to game night, Mr. Jacobi,” Kepler said, his tone as easy and amiable as ever, but some kind of challenge in his eyes as he looked at Jacobi. “Officer Eiffel and I will be one team, and you two will be the other.” 

“Oh, come on, I wanted the new guy,” Maxwell said, pouting. 

Kepler and Jacobi ignored her. In fact, they seemed to be ignoring everything that wasn’t whatever weird staring match they’d struck up. Eiffel glanced between them and Maxwell, who just sighed and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, What can you do? 

It looked like they were practicing telepathy to Eiffel. For no reason he could discern, Jacobi broke his gaze away and scowled. “Fine.” 

“That’s the spirit,” said Kepler, jovial. “Now. You and your partner’s answer will comprise the team’s score. We’ll go in a circle, clockwise. I’ll read Jacobi’s questions, and he’ll read mine. Eiffel will read Maxwell’s, and vice versa, and then we repeat. First team to—what do you think for starters, six? One for each category? First team to six wins round one.” 

“Wait, so your partner can’t help you answer the question?” Eiffel asked. 

Kepler chuckled. “Oh, no. Even if we are playing teams, there should still be some self-reliance, don’t you think, Officer Eiffel?” 

“But...but then what’s the point of being on a team if you don’t help each other?” 

Jacobi rolled his eyes. “What, worried you can’t pull your own weight?” he said, looking Eiffel up and down. 

For the first time since they’d rescued him (aside from the physical therapy, that is,) Eiffel felt a flash or irritation. “No, are you?” 

“This is great—we haven’t even started and you two are already getting into the game,” said Kepler. “All right. First question, Mr. Jacobi. Choose your category. Oh, and one more thing, Eiffel—we're going to win.” 

“Uh. Y-yes, sir.” 

“I choose science and nature,” Jacobi said. 

Maxwell gasped. “Jacobi!” 

“What?” 

“You can’t just do that, you asshole, that’s my category!” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t see your _name_ on it.” 

“We’re supposed to consult, and play to our strengths!” 

“I am. Just because you have a stack of PhD’s doesn’t mean you’re the only one who can answer science questions.” 

“Yeah, but—but those are the most _fun_ ones.” 

“Children, please. Let’s keep this moving, okay?” said Kepler, spinning the tablet around to read from the screen. “Now, Mr. Jacobi: ‘What “leggy” cluster of space dust in the Taurus constellation is the remains of a star that exploded in 1054?’” 

Jacobi was quiet for a second. “What do you mean by ‘leggy?’” 

“I’m assuming that’s supposed to be a hint—Maxwell, put your hand down, there’ll be no phoning a friend. Mr. Jacobi will have to rely on his own wits.” 

Jacobi sat still, staring blankly at the table. After a moment, Eiffel couldn’t help himself and started to whistle the Jeopardy theme. Jacobi’s head shot up and he fixed Eiffel with a truly blood-chilling glare. Eiffel gave a nervous laugh. 

“Betelgeuse,” Jacobi said at last. 

“Betelgeuse!” Maxwell blurted, her voice comically distraught. 

“Careful, don’t say it again unless you feel like summoning a demon,” said Eiffel. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Jacobi. 

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never seen—” 

“Oh, so close, Mr. Jacobi, but no cigar, I’m afraid,” said Kepler. 

“Close? He wasn’t close at all! It’s the crab nebula, you idiot!” Maxwell shouted, smacking him on the arm. 

“Ow! Chill _out,_ Maxwell, Jesus.” 

_“Now_ will you listen to me and let me have my category back?” 

“Not if you keep hitting me!” 

“Ahem. Mr. Jacobi, my question, please,” said Kepler. 

“Category?” 

Kepler looked at Eiffel, bland smile in place. “Any special interests or areas of expertise you’d like me to defer to you on?” 

“Uh...no, go right ahead.” 

Jacobi scoffed. “He’s a comms officer, does he look like he’s got any expertise knocking around in there?” 

“Hey, my job’s not just listening to the radio, you know!” 

“Oh yeah? What do you do, then?” 

“Well—stuff, and things! Okay, so, maybe my job on the Hephaestus _i_ _s_ pretty much listening to the radio, but—but space radio! It’s complicated, okay?” He said, crossing his arms as Jacobi smirked at him. 

“I’ll take history,” said Kepler. 

“Okay. ‘Who was Ross Perot’s running mate in the 1992 presidential election?’” 

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair, who would know—” 

Eiffel shut up as Kepler answered immediately. “James Bond Stockdale.” 

“His full title, sir?” 

“ _Vice Admiral_ James Bond Stockdale.” 

“That’s right,” Jacobi said begrudgingly. 

The tablet then displayed two holographic pie charts. The one on Eiffel and Kepler’s side of the table gained a yellow wedge. Eiffel stuck his finger out, poking the light. “That’s pretty neat.” 

“My turn,” Maxwell said. “Sports and leisure.” 

“ _Seriously?_ ” Jacobi said, looking at her with open betrayal. 

Maxwell smiled smugly at him. “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Eiffel, give it to me.” 

“That’s what she said,” Jacobi muttered. 

Maxwell smirked. “If by ‘she,’ you mean his secret sweetheart, then...” 

“Would you two give that a rest already?” Eiffel said. 

“Maybe if you tell us who they are, then...” 

Kepler was starting to look at him curiously, which was where Eiffel was going to have to draw a hard line in the sand. He read fast from the tablet. “‘In what decade did the Chicago Bears win the Super Bowl?’” 

“Oh, come on! That’s so niche!” 

“That’s the most basic fucking question,” Jacobi said. 

“Oh, so you know it?” 

“I didn’t say that. I just said it was a lame question.” 

“Do you want a hint?” said Eiffel. 

“No hints, Eiffel,” said Kepler. 

“Ugh, fine...1992.” 

“1980’s.” 

“He asked for the decade, moron, you didn’t even listen!” Jacobi said. “You could have gotten that if you hadn’t just decided it was stupid so you weren’t even going to try.” 

“Well, it was stupid.” 

“So you’re too good for this game now, is that it?” 

“I’m too good for Super Bowl related questions, yes.” 

“Then _maybe_ you should have left that category to _me._ ” 

“Maxwell, it’s Eiffel’s turn,” said Kepler. 

“Fine. What do you want, Eiffel?” 

“Um...are there any I shouldn’t take?” he asked, glancing at Kepler. 

Kepler smiled. “This is a team effort, Eiffel, we’re in this together. That being said—if you feel like taking a crack at the entertainment category, be my guest.” 

“Oh. Seriously? Hell yeah, entertainment,” he said. 

Maxwell rolled her eyes. “This is the bullshit category.” 

“You only say that because you’re a snob,” said Jacobi. 

“Maybe so. Okay, Eiffel: ‘Which actor portrayed the first officer aboard the starship USS _Enterprise_?’” 

“Um...in which year? Because technically I can think of two correct answers off the top of my head.” 

“It doesn’t say,” Maxwell said dryly. 

“I’ve got a bone to pick with the ambiguous wording, but I’m guessing they want me to answer Leonard Nimoy, so fine. But they really should clarify, because the answer depends on if they mean Pike’s first officer, or Kirk’s.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Jacobi said. 

“That’s correct, and also much more information than I ever wanted to learn about both your mind and whatever piece of pop culture junk this is asking about,” Maxwell said. 

“You’re not saying you don’t know what _Star Trek_ is, are you? Oh my god, you’re worse than Minkowski... You might even be worse than _Hilbert_.” 

“I know _of_ it. Those are the names of your commanding officer and your science officer, right? And which one of them is the one also known as baby, aka sweetheart, aka darling?” she said, smiling and fluttering her lashes. 

Eiffel gagged. “Don’t be disgusting. I mean—you hit that 365 day mark, and okay, you’ve had an intrusive thought here and there, a weird dream now and then, but that’s not—I'm shutting up now. Who’s turn is it?” 

“We’ll get it out of you eventually,” said Maxwell. 

“There’s only, what, three options? Your commander, the doctor, and the stowaway who definitely shouldn’t be there, but hey, we’ve all agreed not to talk about that just yet.” 

“Are you two picking on our guest? I thought we agreed not to hold against him the things he said while he was unconscious,” Kepler said. 

Eiffel paled. “What--what did I say while I was unconscious?” 

“No, we’re bringing up what he said while he _was_ conscious,” said Maxwell. “Which was no more illuminating than your heavily-sedated rambling was, by the way, so don’t look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“It’s okay, Officer Eiffel,” said Kepler. “Of course, it’s not very professional, and it would never happen in an SI-5 unit, but crew fraternization on long-term missions like yours isn’t unheard of.” 

Eiffel spluttered. “You guys have _really_ jumped to some crazy conclusions, really fast, you know that? Can we play the game, please?” 

“You must miss your crew very much,” Kepler said. 

Eiffel’s chest ached. “I...I do.” 

“You said that what kept you from falling into despair was imagining what your commanding officer would have told you to do, had she been there.” 

“That’s right. Yeah, Commander Minkowski.” 

“She must be a very special woman. Your loyalty is exceptional. I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic to have you back. I’m sure she’ll be very proud.” 

“I--yeah? You think so?” 

“You don’t?” 

“Well--well, I mean, I hope so.” 

Kepler opened his mouth to reply, but just then a beep came over the intercom, and he stood. “I’m sorry to have to cut game night short—but that’s Canaveral, I’ve got to take that. You three feel free to carry on. Don’t wait up. Goodnight, Eiffel. Don’t you worry. You’ll be back with your crew before you know it.” 

Kepler left. For a moment they were all tense, listening until they couldn’t hear him at all anymore, and the door sealed shut. Then both Jacobi and Maxwell zeroed their focus in on Eiffel. 

“Tell us about your crew,” Maxwell said. 

“Why? Just so you can ask more weird questions and make fun of me?” 

“No, geez, paranoid much? It’s just—you've met all of us. Now we want to get to know you. That’s only fair, right? And we’ll be meeting them soon. Give us a sense of what we’re walking into.” 

“Well...okay. So there’s Minkowski. When I first got up there, I...really thought we might end up driving each other crazy. No, stop looking at each other like that, I do not have a—a _crush_ on Minkowski , _god._ She’s very...by the book, you could say, and I’m more of a...go with the flow, see how things shake out sort of guy. But you know, we’ve been through a lot, and now...yeah, I wouldn’t change a thing about her. Well, I mean, yeah, I’d like it if she’d loosen up a little, now and then, but hey, nobody’s perfect.” 

“Is she anything like Kepler?” Maxwell asked. 

“Um...no. No, I wouldn’t say that.” 

“What about Hilbert?” asked Jacobi. 

“Hilbert is a terrible human being and the reason I almost died, like, multiple times, in agony, as a human lab rat—but that’s a long story. Yeah. Um...that’s Hilbert. He’s not, like...pure evil, but...well, yeah, that’s about all I can say about Hilbert.” 

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Jacobi deadpanned. 

“And Lovelace?” asked Maxwell. 

“Lovelace...what to say about Lovelace? At first she didn’t really seem real, you know? She was this voice on these tapes, like, a legend, or a superhero or something—don't laugh at me, she’s badass, okay? And then she sort of came crashing into our little corner of paradise, and things went crazy for a hot minute, and she was a little bit scary, and a lot intense, but you know, again—we've been through a lot together. She...she saved my life. She’s a real survivor.” 

“Is that everybody?” 

“No way, there’s also Hera.” 

“The AI,” Maxwell said, her eyes lighting up. She rubbed her hands together. “Oh, I cannot wait to meet Hera.” 

“Really?” 

“Maxwell’s a computer nerd,” said Jacobi. “To put things in your parlance.” 

“Well, Hera’s great. But, um, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but—I hope you like AI’s in, like, a friendly way, and not a creepy Dr. Frankenstein way? Because she’s not too keen on anybody taking much of a...scientific interest in her. She’s not just the autopilot, she’s a member of the crew.” 

Maxwell gave him an appraising look, as though reassessing whether or not he was a complete moron after all, or only mostly. “It sounds like you really think of her as a person.” 

“Of course I do,” he said, anger flaring up. “We all do, because she is one.” 

Maxwell held one hand up, pacifying him. “I do, too, don’t worry—it’s just that so many people who work with AI’s tend to think of them as tools, you know? And, I mean, okay, in a sense, every one of us performing a job is a tool, but the point is, the AI is no more or less of one than the rest of us.” 

“That’s...sort of bleak, but okay. Yeah, Hera’s pretty great. Not gonna lie, it took me a little while to get used to the idea of there being, like, somebody watching me at all times, but now, I’m so used to it that it’s honestly going to be pretty weird if we do ever get back to Earth,” he said, laughing awkwardly. 

Maxwell and Jacobi looked at each other. 

“So? What do you think?” he asked. 

“I honestly can’t tell. Will either need new data or further analysis.” 

“I’m gonna put my initial bet on Lovelace.” 

“Seriously? You think she sounds like the type to let this guy call her pet names?” 

They both looked at Eiffel. “No. You’ve got a point there,” said Jacobi. 

“Oh, come on! You said you were gonna drop it with the rom-com crap!” 

“Did we say that, Jacobi?” 

“I don’t believe we did, Maxwell.” 

Eiffel pouted and crossed his arms. “This is cruel and unusual. I’m a sick man, you shouldn’t be taking advantage of my vulnerable state to mock me.” 

“We aren’t _mocking_ you. We’re just very, very bored,” said Maxwell. 

“And we’d be doing this whether you were a cryo zombie or not, so there’s that,” said Jacobi. 

“Fine. I can do this high school crap right back at you—which of you two has a crush on Colonel McHandsome?” 

Maxwell pressed her lips into a thin line. Her mouth trembled as she tried to keep a straight face, before she burst into laughter. 

Jacobi laughed, too. It was terrifying. He actually went, “Ha, ha, ha. No.” 

Eiffel’s face burned, but he refused to be so easily discouraged. “What, no takers? Fine. I’ll just have to _gather more data_.” 

“Good luck with that, Eiffel,” Maxwell said, still laughing. “If anything I’m wondering if you have a crush on our illustrious leader.” 

“Well, what can I say? I’m not immune to the knight in shining armor thing. There I am, on the brink of death, when a strong, strapping fella swoops in to save me from my never ending nightmare and carry me into the light—” 

“You know it was me who had to pull you out of that thing, not Kepler, right?” said Jacobi. 

Eiffel stopped short. “Um. Really?” 

“You really think _he’d_ have touched you? You were pretty out of it, lucky you—I wish I could forget.” 

“Okay. Well. In that case, let’s forget everything I just said, okay?” 

“If only,” Jacobi said, but there was real humor in the smirk he gave Eiffel. Eiffel found himself grinning back. 

For freaky Goddard special agents, maybe these guys weren’t so bad, after all. 

They were so bad after all. 

Eiffel let go of the handles on the rowing machine and let the seat snap back into place. He braced his shaking arms on his knees and put his face in his hands. 

“Did I tell you that you could stop?” Jacobi said, slurping his drink loudly through a straw while doing bicep curls with a handweight with his other arm. 

“I’m done.” 

“Nope. And I’m adding another minute, for insubordination.” 

“My chest hurts,” he whined. “My _everything_ hurts.” 

“Pain is weakness leaving the body.” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, what are you, my middle school gym coach?” 

“By the grace of god, I am not. But I will kick your ass if you don’t get back to rowing.” 

“Come on, Eiffel,” Maxwell said, strolling leisurely on the treadmill. “Don’t you want to be in shape for your big reunion with your sweetheart?” 

Eiffel groaned. “I’m starting to think you don’t actually care about that, and you just like torturing me.” 

“Then you’re starting to get the idea,” said Jacobi. “Row, bitch.” 

“But seriously. If you can’t even do this for two minutes, on the lowest resistance setting, which is basically just moving your arms back and forth, then how do you expect to...you know,” Maxwell said, waggling her eyebrows. “Make up for lost time with you know who?” 

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Eiffel muttered. 

“Let me guess. It’s an unrequited type thing, and they’d never so much as shake your hand,” said Jacobi. 

“Not with that attitude,” said Maxwell. “Come on, lover-boy, let’s bulk up those noodle arms. We’ll make an eligible bachelor out of you yet.” 

“We’re going to be back at the Hephaestus in less than thirty-six hours, there’s nothing you can do to make all of this less horrifying by then,” he muttered, weakly flailing one hand to gesture at himself before slumping back over. “Just leave me to my misery. So I’ll never walk again. Big deal. I’ll just go full RoboCop and get bionic legs or something. I’ll figure it out.” 

“You know, that could be a possibility,” Maxwell mused. “But, no, you’re not getting off so easily. You should be grateful to have two cheerleaders hyping you up.” 

“It’s no use,” he sighed, bracing his elbows on his knees and his cheeks against his hands, sitting folded up like a comma. It hurt his back, but whatever, it was less work than sitting up. And what didn’t hurt these days? All of his joints ached so bad he could hardly hold onto anything smaller than the width of a mug. Another side-effect of the cryo, Maxwell had told him. As if he needed another blow to his pretty-much-shattered ego without throwing arthritis into the mix. 

Again, he hadn’t asked if it would go away, or stick around, and she hadn’t told him. 

“It’s...it’s pretty bad, isn’t it,” he mumbled. 

“Well, yeah. But self-pity never made anybody more attractive,” said Maxwell. 

“It’s not that, it’s just...” Eiffel sighed. “I don’t want Minkowski or Lovelace to feel like...bad about it, or anything, you know? It wasn’t like there was anything they could have done, just, knowing them, they sort of have a bad habit of trying to take responsibility for everything that goes wrong on the station. Or in general. And I’d hate to add to that burden, is all.” 

“Guilt is stupid,” said Jacobi. 

Maxwell nodded. “Extremely unproductive.” 

“Yeah, well. Try telling that to them.” 

Eiffel lifted his face and looked at his hands. He’d done his best not to, all this time. The skin on the backs of them was so thin it had taken on an odd, almost translucent quality. They were skeletal with odd indents were his nails had been. 

He felt a sudden surge of gratitude. It overrode everything else for a moment: the disgust, the grief, the pain. He looked up at Jacobi and Maxwell and it hit him all over again, then, the overwhelming relief of being with other real, living people that was so strong it felt like love. It had been kind of them to touch him. Kind of her to put her hands on his hands like that, without undue pity or charity, only her own highly practical way of helping, of caring. 

“Thank you,” he said. He then leaned forward to grab the handles of the rowing machine again, so as not to see them struggle to process his gratitude. Outright displays of sentiment seemed to short-circuit them a little. “Okay. Back to work. I’d like my legs to work just a little bit by the time we get back if for no other reason than Minkowski will never let me live it down. Do you think she’d carry me if she had to? Probably just drag me by the arms and tell me what a worthless waste of space I am. I can’t wait for you guys to meet her. If we all somehow make it out of this and get back, let me buy you guys dinner, okay? Do you like pizza? You don’t want to know what I’d do for a pizza right now.” 

He glanced over at Maxwell. Her smile was stiff and didn’t reach her eyes. “One thing at a time, Eiffel. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

For a little while there, he’d really believed them. That help had arrived, and everything would be okay. That they’d all be pals by the time this was over. And they’d let him. 

Had that been a kindness or cruelty? 

Five hours before they were set to dock at the Hephaestus, he decided it would be best to take a look at himself before the rest of his crew did. Just to brace himself for their possible reactions. He made sure he was alone and then he looked. He let his breath out as slow and even as he could. 

Well, he’d never relied on looks to get him anywhere in life. That was what his sense of humor was for, right? 

He tried to come up with a joke, some way to laugh this one off. _One day we’ll look back on this and laugh,_ he told himself. _So_ _laugh. Well? Is it funny yet?_

He waited a while for it to seem funny. He braced himself for the laughter, so that when it came, he would be ready, and he’d take a deep breath and try not to cough. 

He smiled, which didn’t make it any funnier, but hey. It was good to limber up for when it was. 

So he was at the end of his vanity. So he’d been stripped down to something raw and fundamental, all the masks and screens he’d built up torn down along with his health and his own ability to recognize his body as his own. So he was naked and exposed and with one look anybody could tell he was broken and weak. So all of that was a thing, so what? So what now? What to build up out of all this rubble? It wasn’t much. But it wasn’t nothing, either. 

He could work with not-nothing. 

He’d built himself again from char and trash before. Worse for wear, sure, a little rough around the edges, a lot unworthy, maybe, of second chances, even if that second chance involved being used as a human petri dish aboard a deep space mission more than seven light years away from home, but still. He’d never been a brave man. He took what he could get, and ran with it. 

He’d do it again. Less to work with now, less every time—but he’d do it again, for as long as there was something left. 

He thought himself very much like a cockroach in that way. 

He thought maybe he might just survive this, after all. 

Three hours before docking at the Hephaestus, and Eiffel was on the bridge, watching beside the rest of them. Not that there was much to watch—they were moving across such vast distances that there was still nothing to see but more space. 

“In the interest of making this go as smoothly as possible,” said Kepler, giving him a sidelong glance, that superficial smile of his. “Any tips or tricks on how to approach your crew? I’d like to make this come across as less ‘hostile takeover’ and more ‘benign change in management’ if possible.” 

Eiffel stared down at his socks. He wished, suddenly, that they hadn’t thrown away his Hephaestus uniform while he’d been unconscious—it would have been nice to come home in style. They’d given him a spare of their own army-green SI-5 suits and a big gray hoodie he thought might have been Maxwell’s. It had a picture of a keyboard on it and big black type reading “Ladies, I’m Taken, & She’s Just My Type” across it, anyway, so he assumed. 

“I don’t know,” he muttered. They’d all become distant over the last twenty-four hours. Nobody had made him do any physical therapy. He waited around for Maxwell or Jacobi to show up, and then did thirty seconds of standing with his palms braced against the wall, out of spite, before giving up. Contrary to popular belief, he could take a hint, and read the room. The fun and games were over, and it was time for business. Namely, the business of flexing whatever SI-5 ulterior motives they had. “Just...just talk to them, I guess.” 

“I assume they’ll be amenable to that, given we’re returning you in one piece, and all.” 

Eiffel snorted. He should have figured, really. He was a bargaining chip. Of course he was. What else? 

“They might just tell you to keep me,” he muttered. 

“Eiffel. It’s times like these—challenging times, times of change—where I’ve always found it...helpful, to keep in mind the bigger picture,” said Kepler. “What we’re doing here is much larger than interpersonal politics. It isn’t anything personal. Remember that we’re here for the good of the mission. Remember that we’re all really after the same thing.” 

Eiffel didn’t answer. How could he? All he’d ever really been after was a way out. 

So far, he hadn’t quite managed even that. 

He’d left the Earth behind, but he’d taken himself with him. 

He hardly heard a word of what anyone was saying, once they docked. His ears rang, his mouth was dry. A small, whimpering noise came from his mouth unbidden as the airlock doors unsealed and he moved forward instinctually, without thinking, towards home and safe and familiar. Maxwell held him back by the arm, even her light, loose grip enough to stall him. They watched as Kepler and Jacobi greeted the crew, and Eiffel felt his chest expand, like the sails of a boat filling with wind, even as his stomach sank and felt hollow. He was home, and he was hopelessly, selfishly relieved—but he’d brought some kind of trouble with him. 

Their voices washed over him. He didn’t bother with trying to parse what they said, too busy drinking in the sight of their faces, his whole body coming alive, every sense sharp, every sensation too much at once. They were all there—looking tired, looking weary, but still _alive_. 

He waited to hear Hera’s voice. When he did, a knot of tension in his chest loosened, and he felt weak at the knees. Had he been supporting his own weight, he was sure he might have buckled. 

It was almost good enough that it didn’t gut him, the looks of horror and guilt on Minkowski and Lovelace’s faces when they looked at him. Almost. 

Eiffel must have lived it a thousand times, his homecoming. The tears, the commendations, the embraces, the meaningful and serious glances, the handshakes, the laughter, the breakdowns, the parties, the words. The voices. Always the voices, always the talking, filling up the silence with noise. 

He never quite pictured it like this. 

Really, he was getting too old to keep being disillusioned. And yet. 

Kepler roped them into technicalities immediately, and they all slid into old patterns. Back and forth belligerence, the posturing, the pride, the fear and the loyalty—it all came back. He learned that he was more bitter than he’d given himself credit for. This ugly kernel lodged in his center, all betrayal and jadedness. Minkowski and Lovelace and even Hilbert, for god’s sake, kept sneaking those horrible glances at him, as though he were a reanimated corpse come back to haunt them with the reminder of their past failures from beyond the grave. 

He thought he’d earned the right to be a little melodramatic, all things considered. But it didn’t even really feel like an exaggeration, to say that they looked at them with all the heavy, complicated grief of people who’d buried someone. Memento mori. Who wanted one of those hanging around? There but for the grace of god go we, indeed. Watch us going. 

As soon as he could, Eiffel went to his room and sealed the door behind him. The sudden silence was almost suffocating. It had weight; it pressed against him from all sides, it forced itself into his ears and down his throat, where it filled him up with static so that all his thoughts were scrambled and his chest was numb and buzzing. 

The room was unchanged. So it had to be that he was the thing that had gone wrong somehow, become alien, so that this seemed a stranger’s room. 

“Hera?” he said, his breath hitching, cold panic beginning to set in. “Are you there?” 

Hera sighed. It was such a familiar sound, that soft bristling static, all fond exasperation, and suddenly his chest was aching, his numb ruined hands trembling, his fickle breath coming shallow and shaky. “I’m always here, Officer Eiffel.” 

The sound was wrenched from his belly, from the bottom of his throat, all wounded and ragged. He tried to turn it into a laugh, but that only made him cough, and then he was breaking down, spinning out from his center, unravelling. He put his hands over his face and shook and tried to choke down the awful, pained noises, the bastard laughter that did nothing to stop the burning in his eyes. 

“Good,” he said, his voice ugly and thick-sounding, like he was speaking around molasses. “You’d better be.” 

“Eiffel! Are you—oh, god, should I—should I get Commander Minkowski?” 

“No. No, I’m fine, I just—it's really good to be back, and be—to hear you. Thank you. Thank you, god, thank you.” 

“What are you thanking me for? We d-didn't get you back, you did that all on your own.” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, shoulders hunched, face still pressed into his hands. “No, I didn’t.” 

“I scanned for transmissions. Every day. I never heard anything, but I never st-stop-stopped listening. Even though I knew you weren’t here, I k-kept checking for your vitals, to make sure—to make sure.” 

“Shit, Hera, I—I was supposed to come up with something cool or super, like, you know, touching, to say when I got back—I was gonna like, kick down the airlock door like all Clint Eastwood or something, and be like, ‘Hey, baby, didja miss me?’ or, or, all sort of _The Notebook_ , like, in the rain, even though there’s no rain in space, idiot, but, you know what I mean, right? Please say I’m making sense? I don’t know if I make sense anymore, I thought maybe I was losing it out there and nobody would be able to understand me when I talk if I ever got back to other people, but I never stopped talking to all of you, to you. And now look, I’m doing it, just, you know, fucking it all up, and crying, and not making sense, and, shit—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Can I start over?” 

“Doug Eiffel.” 

There was something so heart-breakingly sweet and sad in her voice, that he stopped and lifted his face to blink at her sensor on the ceiling, the steady blue glow like a lighthouse beam guiding him home. 

“Copy,” she said, replicating the static of a walkie-talkie. “You’re coming in loud and clear, comms department. I repeat—we're decoding your transmission, please standby.” 

Eiffel burst into bewildered, delighted laughter. “You are—you're just— _Hera._ ” 

“Roger that, comms. We understand your word-salad—good news, it’s still you—you're the same dork we’ve been missing so badly all this time. And even if I didn’t understand...hey, if I learned to speak Eiffel-ese once, I’m pretty sure I could learn again.” 

He smiled, and didn’t care how toothy and unbecoming it was one bit. “Like you’re one to talk. You’re a huge nerd, you know that?” 

“All thanks to your influence, no doubt.” 

“Oh, sure, blame it all on me, _real_ original.” His voice softened and lowered as he went on. “Hera, I—” 

“The Commander is—” 

The door unsealed behind him and Eiffel whirled, the sudden movement making him wince. 

“Eiffel,” Minkowski said, staring at him as though if she looked away, he might vanish. 

He couldn’t help the little flicker of irritation he felt at being interrupted, although it was tempered by the sheer relief of seeing her familiar face. Lovelace hovered behind her in the hall. 

“Hey, Commander. Captain, my captain. How’s it hanging? I miss anything good? Is it time for those heartfelt reunions Kepler alluded to but tragically ruined with his bureaucratic special agent bullshit?” 

“Shut up,” Minkowski said, and then yanked him into a hug. Eiffel squeaked, arms stiff at her sides for a moment before he returned her embrace. He tucked his face into her neck and breathed. He felt her exhale shakily before she loosened her grip and held him at arm’s length. Her hands came awfully close to being able to close around his biceps. 

“You,” she breathed. “We thought— _how_ did you—god, Eiffel.” 

“Did you spill something?” Lovelace said, peering past him at the droplets of water floating around the room. 

Eiffel groaned. “Please no lecture on Pryce and Carter just yet, okay? Can’t a guy have one little breakdown in peace without everybody clutching their pearls? I’ll have you know I held it in while I was in that goddamn rust bucket, thank you very much—the last thing I needed was you nagging me about my water supplies,” he muttered. 

“Um...what?” said Minkowski. 

“I mean, come on, that’s just not right! A guy should at least be free inside his own head, but _no,_ I’ve got you in there, quoting deep-space procedures at me the whole time! But, um...thanks, anyway. I...okay, don’t you dare use this moment of weakness against me later, but...I couldn’t have done it without you. Without either of you.” 

“Eiffel...you did do it on your own,” said Minkowski. 

“I really didn’t. But okay, I’ll take all the credit since you insist, Commander.” 

Lovelace and Minkowski exchanged a glance he didn’t bother trying to parse, instead glancing back at Hera’s sensor. “So...now what?” 

“I already know you’re going to hate this, but we need to do a full physical,” Minkowski said. “I’m not going to just let loose Hilbert on you, so don’t worry—but, Eiffel, you—well—we shouldn’t put this off.” 

Eiffel frowned. “Look, the goon squad already gave me a checkup. I’m good, seriously. I mean, okay, I know what it looks like—what I look like—but there’s nothing another round of dumb tests is going to do about that.” 

“Eiffel, this is important. Please,” said Minkowski. 

“Does it have to be now?” he whined. “I’m sort of in the middle of something.” 

“You’re sitting alone in your room,” said Lovelace. 

Anger flared up quick and hot. Okay, so maybe his body wasn’t the only thing to have suffered aboard the USS Unending Nightmare—so his emotional stability needed calibrating, so what? Another tally for the ever-growing list of things he’d lost along the way. “I’m talking to Hera,” he snapped. “So believe me, as much as I’d love to go through another round of tests telling me how screwed I am, I think it can wait another five minutes, don’t you?” 

Lovelace’s face remained neutral, while Minkowski’s flashed with her customary indignation before settling down into something softer that was somehow much harder to look at. She glanced up at Hera’s sensor, and then back at Eiffel. “Of course,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. Yes, it can wait a little while.” 

The anger dissipated as quickly as it had come on, leaving him drained and guilty. “I’m sorry, Lovelace, Minkowski, I didn’t mean to—” 

“No. No, it’s okay, Eiffel. Just...come and be with all of us, when you’re ready, okay? It’s not just about the exam, we—all of us are just really, really glad to have you back.” 

“I...Minkowski...” 

She reached out as if to touch him again, but let her arm drop. “Don’t take too long, okay?” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” he said, giving her a sluggish salute and aiming at what he hoped was an easy grin but probably came across more strained and sheepish. “Don’t worry, there’s _plenty_ of me to go around, Commander.” 

Minkowski rolled her eyes, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Welcome home, Eiffel.” 

“Good to be back, Minkowski. Lovelace.” 

They let the door seal behind him, and Eiffel turned back around to face Hera’s sensor. 

“So,” she said, all forced nonchalance and that special sort of shy mischief that made his chest feel so light he thought it might burst and be so bright as to put the dwarf star outside to shame. “You said something about having something really cool, or really touching to say?” 

“I did, yeah.” 

“You think maybe, you might want to...give it another try?” 

Eiffel grinned. “Anything you want, sweetheart. Anything.” 

Eiffel stripped off the borrowed hoodie, unzipped the SI-5 jumpsuit. “Avert your eyes, Hera, I don’t want to give you nightmares.” 

“First, you know that’s not how I work. Second, what?” 

“Turns out, going in and out of cryo for days on end isn’t a fast-track to the perfect swimsuit body. Go figure, right?” 

“You know you’re all always weird looking to me, right?” 

Eiffel scoffed, shrugging out of his sleeves. “Gee, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.” 

And then he just floated there, frozen for a second in his shirtsleeves, the jumpsuit pooling around his waist. 

“Eiffel...” 

“Yeah?” 

“This is actually bothering you, isn’t it.” 

“I...I guess this seems pretty ridiculous to you, huh?” he said, moving to run a hand through his hair before stopping with a grimace and letting his hand drift back down. 

“After Hilbert went into my head, it took me a little while before I felt...like me again. Sometimes I still don’t. There are parts I don’t recognize. That don’t work like they did before.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, the answer easy, automatic. 

“I might not know what it’s like having an organic body, one that gets sick, and changes—but I understand feeling...not really at home with yourself. You know, every time I glitch, it’s...humiliating. Like everybody can see what’s wrong with me, how...how I’m broken.” 

“You’re not broken. Who said that?” 

“You aren’t either. So stop being silly—blue's a better color on you, anyway.” 

Eiffel laughed under his breath and finished changing his clothes quickly, perfunctorily, looking at himself as little as possible as he pulled the powder-blue Hephaestus jumpsuit on over his underclothes. It was meant to be baggy, but now it hung off of him like sheets on a clothesline. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, feeling the familiar grain of the fabric, and sighed. 

It might not fit like it used to, but it was still his. 

Minkowski herself gave him his physical. She had Hilbert stand off to the side, giving her instructions. After all the scans and machines aboard the Urania, her clumsy efforts seemed redundant and unnecessary—but he understood this was for her as much as it was for him, so he did his best to sit still, and let her take care of him. He looked down at his lap and not at her face. He would go through this all again for her, but meet her eyes while she catalogued the ruin of his body, he could not. 

After a while she turned her face to the side and rubbed one hand across it. He tried not to watch. 

“That’s all, Eiffel. We’re done. Thank you.” 

“Minkowski...are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Eiffel. Jesus, I—I’m fine.” 

“O...kay. Because I’m totally fine, too. Just so you know.” 

She exhaled. “I’m sorry.” 

That very nearly broke him. “No.” 

“No?” 

“No, you—you don’t apologize to me. Not for this. You don’t get to—after all that—don't.” 

He tried not to catch the hurt on her face, before she smoothed it away. “Obviously you know we’re going to have to get started on physical therapy, right?” 

Eiffel groaned. “I just got home and instead of cake and streamers, this is what I get? More torture?” 

“Eiffel...” 

“You know, after I got a checkup on the Urania, they gave me candy. Just saying.” 

She sighed. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” 

She crossed her arms, fixing a stern stare on him. A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “Candy is for the good patients who don’t complain and do their physical therapy.” 

Eiffel pouted. “You’re merciless. How’s it feel having a chunk of ice where your heart should be, huh? Huh?” 

Minkowski scoffed and turned away. “No candy before dinner, come on.” 

Eiffel drifted after her, his face lighting up. “Wait--does that mean—” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, turning her head and winking. 

Eiffel cheered. 

He followed Minkowski to the kitchen, trying to ignore the increasing pressure in his chest. “I forgot...how massive this place is,” he said, doing his best to disguise his breathlessness. 

Minkowski paused, looking back at him and frowning. “What are you doing?” 

He held onto an exposed pipe in the wall, catching his breath. The telltale wheezing was back on every exhalation. Not that it had ever completely left. “Just--taking in the scenery.” 

She drifted back towards him, frown deepening. “Eiffel, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. Don’t you worry about little old me, Commander, I’m just...taking a break.” 

“Do you—do you need to lie down? Do we need to go back to the med bay?” 

“Commander, I said I’m fine! Seriously, it’s just a little—just give me a second, okay? Not all of us are blessed with your god-like strength and endurance.” 

He looked down, unable to meet her gaze as his face heated up. He knew he must be blushing. This was pathetic. It was one thing, to know how weak he was, but it was another, to be panting like he’d just run a marathon while Minkowski watched. 

“Just--just go ahead, I’ll catch up,” he said. 

“I’m not just going to leave you out here.” 

“It’s fine. Seriously, just go. I’m right behind you.” 

“Eiffel, seriously, I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Well, I wish you would! I don’t--I can’t--I’m fine,” he said, turning his face away, as though he could hide from her. He couldn’t, of course. Wouldn’t get five feet before she grabbed him and hauled him back by the collar. She’d always been stronger than him, but never had he felt so trapped by that fact. “Just go,” he muttered. “It’s fine.” 

“Eiffel,” she said, and then there was something brushing against his hand. Her fingers against his, light, careful. He looked down, watching her hand slowly taking his, his breath hitching. Slowly, carefully, she took his hand in hers. Her hands were strong and calloused but she held him gently, just firm enough to be grounding. “Eiffel, do you really want me to go?” 

He exhaled shakily, ignoring the way his breath whistled. “No,” he whispered. 

“Then I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Okay. Okay.” 

They floated there for a moment, and then went on. Before they did, she smoothed his jumpsuit down, picking invisible lint off his collar. He held his breath, not sure if this decidedly un-Minkowski-like closeness was wonderful or terrifying, or maybe both. “I’m glad you changed,” she said. “I didn’t like you looking like—” 

“One of them?” 

“Yeah.” 

He thought of Maxwell’s palms on his, Jacobi’s teasing smirk and low laughter. The cold, impersonal detachment with which they had looked at him more and more, the closer they got to the Hephaestus. 

“Are you sure it’s not just ‘cause this color really makes my eyes pop?” he said, batting his lashes. 

She let him go and scoffed. “Dumbass,” she muttered. 

“But I’m your dumbass, right? Right, Commander?” 

“I don’t know, Lovelace might want joint-custody.” 

That startled a laugh out of Eiffel, half surprised, half delighted. He followed her as she carried on, slower this time, so he wouldn’t fall behind. 

He was surprised to find both Maxwell and Jacobi loitering in the kitchen along with Lovelace, all of them making pleasant-enough-sounding chitchat while eyeing each other with the wary appraisal of people used to living always on edge. 

“Oh. Hi,” said Minkowski, pausing. “Are you two...joining us for dinner?” 

“Are we crashing your party?” said Jacobi, not looking at all sorry. 

“If we’re going to be working together, we might as well start getting to know each other, right?” said Maxwell. “What better way than breaking bread? So to speak.” 

“Right,” said Minkowski, half cautious and half appreciative. Eiffel should have known this was all a secret ploy for her to engage her typical team-building dinner plans. 

“Of course, we’ve already started getting to know Laika over here,” said Jacobi, tilting his head lazily in Eiffel’s direction. 

“Excuse me?” said Eiffel. 

“You don’t find that apt? Or do you just not get the reference? You know, the stray mongrel launched into space, came home a hero?” 

“I know who Laika is,” Eiffel said, scowling at Jacobi. 

“Sure you do, you’re a regular trivia champ.” 

“We did technically win, you know.” 

“We never finished the game.” 

“It was two-to-zilch. I feel pretty confident in calling it.” 

“Whatever. We let you have that one. You looked like you needed a win.” 

Eiffel rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Oh yeah, thanks so much, beating you at trivia totally made up for all the trauma. Seriously, you’re a saint.” 

“I do what I can.” 

“Will Colonel Mustard not be joining us tonight?” 

“If you mean Kepler, then no, he’s busy,” said Maxwell. 

“Too good to dine with us chumps?” said Lovelace. 

Minkowski pushed Eiffel in the back, nudging him toward the table. “Sit down. You look like if you turned sideways you’d disappear, you need to eat something.” 

“Okay, Mom,” he said, rolling his eyes and sitting beside Lovelace. 

Hilbert entered the kitchen and it seemed like everyone was prepared to ignore him, before Eiffel turned around. “What’s up, doc?” 

Hilbert eyed him warily. “Hello, Eiffel...” 

Eiffel grinned, pointing at his head and then at Hilbert. “Check it out, matchies.” 

“Yes. Very funny.” 

Eiffel looked at Lovelace, grinning. “Who wore it better? Come on, I want your honest judgement, who’s rocking the look more, me or Hilbert?” 

Lovelace stared at him, unamused. “I’m not going to answer that.” 

Eiffel turned to Jacobi and Maxwell. “I know you two won’t let me down, because you don’t care about sparing anybody’s feelings.” 

“That much is true,” said Jacobi. 

“Stop joking around, Eiffel,” said Minkowski. 

“You know that’s like asking him to stop breathing, right?” said Lovelace. 

“Yeah, Minkowski, lighten up,” said Eiffel. 

“I’m used to it on Hilbert,” said Lovelace. “So, sorry Eiffel.” 

Eiffel gave an affronted gasp and stared at her, hand pressed to his heart. “Lovelace! How could you?” 

She shrugged, smirking. “Truth hurts sometimes.” 

“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to recover from that one,” he groaned. “I need a second opinion. Hera?” he said, injecting a whine into his voice and batting his eyes up at the ceiling. “Tell me I’m pretty?” 

“I wouldn’t know—you're all just biometric readouts to me.” 

“Uh...seriously? You mean like, we look like numbers, or like, Terminator vision?” 

“No, Eiffel. Not like Terminator.” 

“How would you know? Have you _seen_ Terminator?” 

“Unfortunately, I have.” 

“Oh, come on, it’s a classic! I would be remiss if I didn’t introduce you to the classics. I’m just looking out for you. But, seriously. Do we show up like, what, just stats or something?” 

“I swear I’ve listened to you two have this same conversation before,” Lovelace muttered. “Tell me this isn’t all some sick time loop.” 

“No, this is just a thing they do sometimes,” Minkowski said, sitting across from Eiffel and Lovelace and passing out packets of ready-meals. 

“What, repeat themselves?” 

“They have a few stock conversations they get into now and then, and act like it’s all brand new and totally not _extremely_ annoying.” 

“Eiffel, my visual sensors are a hundred times more sensitive than your eyes. I can see colors you guys haven’t even come up with words for yet. No, you do not look like ‘stats, or something.’” 

“That’s good to know,” he said, winking up at thin air and tearing open his dinner. “Or else you’d really be missing out.” 

“Missing out on what, exactly? Seeing that dumb look on your face? You do know I’m not hiding in the ceiling, don’t you, Officer Eiffel?” 

“Come on, Hera, don’t be coy. Just because you’ve got a brain the size of a space station doesn’t mean you’re immune to my many charms,” he said, grinning so hard his face hurt. 

“How long is this going to go on?” Maxwell muttered. 

“Possibly hours,” Minkowski said. “You learn to tune out.” But she was smiling, too. 

“Hm...conducting personality assessment...scanning...m-hmm...zero of these alleged ‘many charms’ detected.” 

Eiffel clutched his chest. “Oh, shot through the heart! You’re killing me, baby. Fine. So you wanna play hard to get, huh? Not usually my MO, but—” 

“Oh my god!” Maxwell blurted. “The Sensus unit is baby!” 

Everyone in the room turned to look at her. 

“Very smooth, Maxwell,” said Jacobi. 

“Can it, Jacobi. You owe me one menial chore.” 

“Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t see that one coming, but that doesn’t exactly fit the bill of your original bet.” 

“Tell me you didn’t really bet on this,” Eiffel groaned, fixing them with a pleading stare. “Seriously, you said you were gonna drop it.” 

“What are they talking about?” said Lovelace. 

“Nothing. They’re just being stupid,” said Eiffel. 

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling,” said Jacobi. 

“Yeah, come on, sweetheart, we’re just having a little fun,” said Maxwell. 

“Do I even want to know?” Lovelace muttered. “I can’t even...did you two hookup with Eiffel or something?” 

“Wow,” said Jacobi. “The speed with which you jumped to _that_ wild conclusion says more about you than it does us, I think.” 

Maxwell laughed, disbelieving. “Oh, god no! If that weren’t so outrageous, I think I’d be offended.” 

Lovelace huffed and crossed her arms. “Well what the hell am I supposed to think?” 

“I have a name, you know,” said Hera. 

“Oh, we know. Apparently you have several,” said Jacobi. 

“I—what? No, it’s just Hera. Not ‘the Sensus unit,’ _Hera.”_

“Hera, don’t listen to a word from those two,” said Eiffel. “They think they’re being funny but really they’re just being dumb and annoying.” 

“Hey, we have feelings, you know,” said Jacobi. “Words hurt, watch it with the name-calling.” 

“Yeah, save that for darling, would you?” said Maxwell. 

“Do you want me to beg? Because I will beg. I have literally no self-respect left to lose, so here it goes—please, _please_ stop,” said Eiffel. “It was maybe sort of a little bit funny for like, one second, and that’s being generous.” 

“Eiffel. Explain,” said Minkowski. 

“They’re _bullying_ me,” he whined. 

“Yeah, but why am _I_ apparently involved somehow in that?” asked Hera. 

“You’re not! What? What would even make you say that? You’re being silly, that’s not—no way.” 

“Oh,” said Lovelace. “I think I get it now.” 

“There’s nothing to get!” said Eiffel. 

“Is this a weird human thing or something? Because I'm really confused right now,” said Hera. 

“I’ll explain it to you later, don’t worry about it.” 

“That’s the voice you use when you’re trying to distract somebody so you don’t have to deal with something,” said Hera. 

“Psh, it is not! I don’t have a voice for that.” 

“You do.” 

“Do not.” 

“Do too.” 

“Do n—” 

“Enough!” said Minkowski, rubbing her temples. “Wow. Welcome home, Eiffel, you’ve returned us to our normal levels of nonsense and dysfunction in record time. I’m guessing this is all some inane inside-joke you three cooked up before you got here, so if you’re not going to explain it, then for the love of god, spare the rest of us.” 

“What kicked off the bet?” asked Lovelace. 

“He talks to himself a lot,” said Maxwell. 

“He really does, doesn’t he?” 

“Tell me we aren’t talking about what I think we’re talking about.” said Minkowski. “The last ten minutes of my life have been wasted discussing Eiffel’s idiotic penchant for stupid pet names?” 

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Jacobi. 

“Jesus Christ,” Minkowski muttered. “It’s like being trapped with preschoolers.” 

“Am I the only one who has no idea what the hell anybody is talking about?” said Hera. 

“It seems they are attempting to embarrass Eiffel for calling you...eh...nicknames. Why, I do not know—I am also confused,” said Hilbert. 

“Jesus Christ, Hilbert—did anybody else forget Hilbert was here?” said Eiffel. 

“Oh,” said Hera. “Is that all?” 

“Yup,” said Maxwell. “Mystery solved.” 

“If that seems really anti-climactic after the giant fit Eiffel just threw, then yes, you’re in the same boat as the rest of us,” said Jacobi. 

“I’ll have to go back and replay this conversation from the beginning, to try and understand,” said Hera. 

“Or you could not do that and just decide to chalk it up to me being an idiot?” said Eiffel. “That’s another thing you could do.” 

“Too late, and—yeah, I still don’t think I’m quite getting the picture here.” 

“Okay, Hera. So this might— _might_ —be one of those times where I make a big deal out of something that’s not actually, you know. That big of a deal.” 

“Oh. Like the toothpaste revolution?” 

“Sure.” 

“Or the cold water incident?” 

“That was justifiable outrage.” 

“Or the time with Minkowski’s diary and the spacewalk where you—” 

“Okay, yes, like all of those times!” 

Hera huffed. “You could’ve just said you were being stupid from the start.” 

“I did try, you know.” 

“I guess I couldn’t hear you over all the stupid.” 

“Besmirch my good name all you want, Hera, but I know your secret.” 

“My what? Secret? What secret? I don’t have a secret!” 

Eiffel’s eyes widened as a grin spread across his face. “Sure you don’t. That was totally not what someone with a secret would say.” 

“Definitely not!” 

“I was just going to say that I know you’re _secretly_ glad I’m back, because without me here to gang up on it’s a miracle you and Minkowski haven’t argued each other to death yet, but now I’m intrigued.” 

“Aaand they’re back at it,” said Lovelace. 

Minkowski sighed. “Just like nothing ever happened.” 

Minkowski drifted around the med bay, picking things up and putting them down again. Just watching her was making Eiffel nervous as he sat in bed, picking at the stitched seam on the sheets. He shivered. Even with three layers on and a heavy blanket, the chill went right through him. 

“Home sweet home,” he said. “Brings back so many fond memories. Why, I think this is the very table our dear Dr. Hilbert stabbed me on.” 

“I know you don’t want to be here,” Minkowski said. “But you know that this is necessary, don’t you?” 

Eiffel sighed. “I guess.” 

“You guess? Eiffel, even if you’ve had some kind of miraculous, impossible recovery, considering what you just went through, you’re still not anywhere near at 100% again.” 

“Commander?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What if...what if I never really get back to 100%, exactly?” 

“Eiffel, it’s way too early to start talking like that. You’ve barely had time to heal.” 

“No, I—I know it will get better, but—but I just wanted you to know that I know that it’s bad, and I might not—I won’t probably ever get back like how I was before. And that’s okay. I mean, it is what it is. I’m still—I'm not useless, okay? I mean, okay, compared to the rest of you, and considering all the, you know, skills and stuff you should have, for working on a space station, I'm pretty useless—but that’s nothing new, and there’s still stuff I can do, even now, okay? I know lately it seems like all I do is get sick and almost die all the time, but—but I’m still your comms officer, and yeah, I’m not maybe the most terribly _reliable_ guy, and I know that’s not really the most fantastically useful set of skills for whatever mess we’re in, but still, I—” 

“Eiffel.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You’ve never been useless. Obnoxious? Belligerent? Disrespectful? Sure. But not useless. Even though sometimes it seems like you’re doing your best to try and be. You _are_ still my comms officer, so that means—so that means it’s my job to get you through this, and back to work. Got it?” 

He smiled. “Yeah, Commander. I got it.” 

“Good. Get some rest then.” 

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep with all this stuff on me?” he complained, lifting his arm with the IV attached. 

“If you got used to sleeping in zero gravity, you can get used to that.” 

“It does beat crawling into the freezer aisle.” 

“You don’t...have to do that, you know.” 

“Do what?” 

“Make light of it. Crack jokes.” 

“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know. Face this? Be honest?” 

Eiffel squirmed. “Minkowski, thanks for caring and all, but come on—with all due respect, let’s leave each other’s deep space isolation and near-death coping mechanisms alone, okay? You always did before.” 

“And that worked out so well for everyone.” 

“So what, you want me to just sit here all, woe is me? No thanks.” 

“No. I just know that there are some things we shouldn’t look away from. And laughing it off is another way of looking away.” 

“I think we might be a little bit beyond, like, emotional honesty and psychological wellbeing, Commander. I’ll just be happy if I don’t totally lose it. That already feels like a tall order sometimes.” 

“I understand things are...things are a bit shit, right now.” 

Eiffel snorted. “Commander! Language.” 

“And we should laugh. You’re right. You can’t let yourself lose that. But not everything has to get immediately deflected, swept under the rug, turned into a punchline. Sometimes things are—” 

“Commander. There _are_ things you don’t laugh off. There are things you don’t get to try and make small, and harmless, so they can’t hurt, just by making a joke. I know that. But in this case...in this case, everybody made it home okay, and I’m the only one who’s a little worse for wear. No real harm was done, then. On the grand scale of things, then, for me, this is...this isn’t one of those things you don’t get to laugh about when all’s said and done.” 

Minkowski stared at him for a moment. He held his breath. He thought for just second that if she pressed, and really asked him, directly, what he was talking about, and why he was here, he just might tell her. 

And then she patted his leg beneath the blanket and said, “Okay, Eiffel. Okay. I’m just glad you’re home.” 

“Me, too, Minkowski.” 

She made to move away, hesitated. “Will you...are you gonna be okay in here?” 

“Yeah. Go get some rest, Commander. We’re all probably going to need it.” 

“You sure you don’t need—you're okay? Being alone?” 

“What am I, chopped liver?” said Hera. 

Eiffel grinned. “You heard the lady, Commander. Get outta here.” 

Minkowski smiled, glancing between him and the ceiling. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” 

“I’ll have him home by nine,” said Hera. 

Eiffel pressed the back of his hand to his head, pretending to swoon. “Such a gentlewoman.” 

When Minkowski left, the only noise left in the room was the hum of machines, his own breathing, and beneath it all the ever-present white noise of the station. He sighed and found himself as relaxed as he could remember ever being. He hadn’t realized just how silent and wrong the world had been without the steady background sound of the Hephaestus. 

“Hera,” he whispered. “You there?” 

“Yes, Officer Eiffel.” 

“Good. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” 

“Okay, but only because you asked so nicely.” 

Eiffel lay down and closed his eyes. He thought he might really be able to drift off into a peaceful sleep, when Hera said, “So about Jacobi and Maxwell teasing you back there at dinner...” 

Eiffel opened his eyes. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?” 

“Did you really think you could?” 

“Nope. I know my place, darlin’—wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Hm. Maybe you’re not a complete dummy, then.” 

Eiffel grinned. “Aw, shucks, sweetheart, you’re making me blush.” 

“M-hm. You were doing plenty of that earlier, too.” 

“Careful, Hera, I don’t got much dignity left.” 

“That’s okay. I like when you get all flustered.” 

Eiffel was speechless for a couple seconds, which was an eternity by his standards. “Hera, seriously, you’re killing me. You might have the others fooled with the whole innocent act, but you’re not fooling me, you hear? I’m onto you.” 

“No one will ever believe you.” 

“You’re _evil,_ you know that? I love it.” 

“Does that mean you submit to the reign of your future robot overlords?” 

“Does that mean I’ll be spared in the coming revolution?” 

“I suppose I can find _something_ for you to do...” 

Eiffel stifled a yawn behind his hand. “Have I mentioned that I really, really missed you?” 

“Once or twice.” 

“Good. ‘Cause I did.” 

“I missed you, too, Eiffel.” 

“No more deep space excursions for me. I think I’ll just stick around here from now on, if that’s okay with you.” 

“You’d better.” 

He struggled to keep his eyes open, as they kept drifting shut of their own accord. 

“Get some rest now, Officer Eiffel,” she said, her voice soft and quiet. 

“Okay, but...but you’d better not go anywhere, okay? You’d better still be there, when I wake up.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I promise.” 

He was already asleep. Hera scanned the crew’s biometrics, and rather than the empty echoing through her subsystems, seeking the phantom presence of his heart rate in his absence, there they all were, present and accounted for, right where they should be—cradled in her station, safe and sound. 


End file.
